Abstract
Swazi newspaper editor Bhekithemba Makhubu at work in The Nation’s offices
Credit: The Nation
Journalist
Many of his fellow inmates in Sidvwashini Prison were on remand, not yet convicted or sentenced, just waiting for their trials to begin. Their families, many of whom were struggling financially, hired lawyers for thousands of Lilangeni (about $30). The lawyers would visit their client once, then disappear. Makhubu watched inmates queuing to use the single public phone in the prison, trying to track down their errant attorneys. He listened, asked questions and, after he was released, wrote articles about the crooked lawyers demanding that Swaziland’s Law Society investigate. “These are poor people. They battle to afford the fee, and lawyers are stealing their money.”
Makhubu, who spoke to Index on Censorship while waiting in Johannesburg for a flight home to Swaziland’s capital Mbabane, laughed loudly after telling this story. “The lawyers aren’t very happy with me,” he mock-sighed. It’s a situation he ought to be used to by now. After nearly 30 years in journalism, operating in one of Africa’s most repressive countries, he’s made plenty of people unhappy by doing his job.
“There are no holy cows when I write,” he said. That’s part of what set Makhubu on to a collision course with Swazi authorities in early 2014. He’s the editor and publisher of The Nation, a monthly magazine that casts an often critical eye on the tiny southern African country that shares a border with South Africa and Mozambique. It is also Africa’s last absolute monarchy, ruled by King Mswati III. The King has cost Makhubu his job before: in 1999, while still working for the Times of Swaziland newspaper, he was handed the sort of story that would make many young journalists run a mile. The King’s newest wife (he has 15) had been what Makhubu called “a naughty girl” and then dropped out of school. Revealing the woman’s high school record might be trite gossip to a reader from elsewhere in the world but was a serious story in Swaziland. “She was a potential bearer of the heir to the throne,” Makhubu pointed out.
He wrote a story and was swiftly sued for defamation. The matter didn’t go to court. “How could one of the King’s wives come to court and testify?” Makhubu asked, chuckling again at the memory – but he was sacked. After two years away from newspapers, he resurfaced at The Nation, helping its founders to formalise operations and create a regular monthly publication that’s been galling the powerful and unscrupulous ever since.
It was taking on another of these “holy cows” that led to Makhubu’s arrest, along with prominent human rights lawyer Thulani Maseko, in March 2014. In articles and an opinion piece published a month earlier, Makhubu and Maseko had questioned whether Swaziland’s chief justice Michael Ramodibedi had wilfully bungled a case. Ironically, it involved a contempt of court charge. A furious Ramodibedi threw the book at them, launching a case that Makhubu believes did far more damage to Swaziland’s international reputation than to his own.
Mswati himself was Ramobidebi’s boss – among his many and wide-ranging powers are the hiring and firing of jurists. In Swaziland, Makhubu told Index: “Once you’re in authority, you’ve got some kind of divine wisdom. Kings are assumed to be intelligent, so [a person’s thinking is], ‘He must have chosen the right person [when he appointed me], so I’m obviously intelligent too.’”
This sort of thinking partly persists Makhubu said, because most journalists in Swaziland don’t like to draw attention to themselves or cause controversy. So they keep their heads below the parapet. “They see what’s happening, but they keep quiet.”
But quiet doesn’t suit Makhubu. He wasn’t always going to be a journalist, although it does run in the family: his father was also a newsman. Makhubu was all set to attend law school, but at the last moment decided he was heading in the wrong direction. His father wasn’t very pleased and “we fought” – but “I won”, the 45-year-old laughed. He didn’t give up on law entirely, enrolling for a degree at the University of South Africa, which specialises in distance learning.
“I wanted to keep improving myself so that my readers wouldn’t get bored with my writing. I never intended to practice. It was about intellectual improvement,” he said.
The degree still isn’t done because between his work, a two-year tussle with his own government, and a commitment to his wife, Fikile, and four children, time has been too precious a commodity for studying law. He’s “still keen to finish” and said a local lawyer had offered him the chance to join his practice once the relevant letters are behind his name. But would a man who clearly loves journalism so much ever leave the trade?
“I still like what I do,” he said. He was back at work two weeks after he and Maseko were released, thanks to the Swaziland Supreme Court, which overturned their conviction on appeal. In another vindication, Ramobidebi was charged with corruption and later sacked by Mswati and effectively exiled from Swaziland.
Surprisingly, Makhubu views his detention and conviction as a good thing for Swazi journalism. “At a personal level, they’re trying to stay away from me. I think the government is a bit embarrassed.” That embarrassment, he suggested, had eased the pressure on Swazi media at large. Sadly, it is likely to be a brief respite.
Makhubu said that in the past five years, students enrolled for diplomas in journalism through the University of Swaziland were increasingly scared to become writers. “Writers are not respected or treated well. We’re pariahs,” Makhubu said. “It’s just that some of us don’t care.” Instead they were opting for public relations or other relatively safe paths – ones that won’t set them up to become the next Bheki Makhubu.
